.95-9 

'3 7  9 


HE  ROSE-JA 


S  JONES,  JR 


THE  ROSE-JAR 


BOOKS  BY  MR  JONES 


The  Voice  in  the  Silence 
The  Rose- Jar 

Interludes 

From  Quiet  Valleys 

The  Path  o'  Dreams 

(with  Clinton  Scollard) 

From  the  Heart  of  the  Hills 


THE  ROSE-JAR 

BY  THOMAS  S  JONES,  JR 


PORTLAND    MAINE 

THE    MOSHER     PRESS 

MDCCCCXIII 


COPYRIGHT 
THOMAS    S   JONES,    JR 

1906 :  1909 


FIRST   EDITION, 
SECOND   EDITION, 
THIRD   EDITION, 


OCTOBER,    1906 

DECEMBER,    1909 

JUNE,    1913 


TO 
THE  MEMORY 

OF 
MY  MOTHER 


311504 


Thanks  are  due  the  Editors  of  Harper's 
Magazine,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Ainslee's 
Magazine,  Appleton's  Magazine,  The  Bos- 
ton Transcript,  The  Delineator,  Everybody's 
Magazine,  Lippincott' s  Magazine,  The  New 
York  Times,  The  Pathfinder,  Poet  Lore, 
The  Smart  Set,  and  the  other  publications 
in  which  the  poems  of  this  collection 
originally  appeared,  for  their  kind  per- 
mission to  reprint. 


CONTENTS 


AS  IN  A  ROSE-JAR    .         ..        W      .  3 

THE  LITTLE  GHOSTS     I  .#J  &Q.    UQY  4 

THE  ISLAND  iff/.'-j  -iute  Uii'j  '/a  i  *.i#i  5 

YOUTH      •„  •      „         ^        ,.       HOl:^;;  6 
WITH  APRIL  WINDS         ..         £a  fH  Si   7 

JOYOUS-GARD    .        ..      SI/  -.1  ilOV!  DH  3  8 

A  YESTERDAY  .        ,...       ..        aC?      .  9 

TWO  SONGS  IN  SPRING    .      4Afli      .  10 

AT  THE  WINDOW    \A      .      t  ft!  .  •      .  11 

MAY-EVE  .      ..      ,«      ,.      3a:r.-^  12 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  FAR  AWAY  .  13 

TO  SONG                                W    JXU3    H/  14 

YOU  AND  I        ..        ,.        ..          m      .  15 

PRIMAVERA      ..       YX(VLI-iaa      .  16 

A  DESERTED  VILLAGE     .        ..78UO  17 

SAIDA         ..      '..'JlAay^U      .          .  18 

FROM  THE  HILLS     ,4        ,.O^O2        .  19 

I  KNOW  A  QUIET  VALE            Wt  *>»  20 

THE  ROSE  HAS  BLOWN  AWAY        .  21 

TO  WILD-ROSES           •  ^  1A*V       '      LK  22 

LONGING     .                              .          .          .  23 

A  HOUSE  O'  DREAMS         /        .          .  24 

OF  ONE  WHO  WALKS  ALONE           .  25 


v 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN  ARCADY         .          .          ...  26 

THE  POET          ' .      *   .          .          .          .  27 

FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF   KEATS         .  28 

SOMETIMES         „      .  ..  *  Ai-''UOjC    P-.  JK  29 

TO  YOU,   DEAR  HEART    .      3, IT'  1J  30 

IN  TRINITY  CHURCH-YARD     .      ^  31 

IMPRESSION        ..         „         .          .        *P  32 

THE  PIPER         T        fcti;1!'*/     IUH*JH  33 

THE  HUNCHBACK     ,,. '       ^-j!  HAC  -«V'  34 

INTERLUDE        .«      , ,.         ,ft,^      .        -V  35 

REMEMBRANCE           .          .          .      *>r.  36 

MY  SOUL  IS  LIKE  A  GARDEN-CLOSE  37 

NOON-TIDE 38 

TRAUMEREI 39 

ON  AN  IDYL  OF  THEOCRITUS          .  40 

TRISTESSE           <;      -„        ..        t.  c.i  ^4  41 

AN  ETUDE  IN  IVORY        ..       fi#'Vf&}  42 

AT  DUSK   .       ;.  y  fv,  iy/  :t:vr  ^  u  43 

IN  THE  FALL  O'  YEAR    .          .          &  44 

AN  OLD  SONG    .        .,     UJII  f  SttVjk  45 

OLD  ROSES  46 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE    ....        49 


Vlll 


THE  ROSE-JAR 


AS  IN  A  ROSE-JAR 

S  in  a  rose-jar  filled  with  petals  sweet 
Blown  long  ago  in  some  old  garden  place, 
Mayhap,  where  you  and  I,  a  little  space 
Drank  deep  of  love  and  knew  that  love  was  fleet- 
Or  leaves  once  gathered  from  a  lost  retreat 
By  one  who  never  will  again  retrace 
Her  silent  footsteps — one,  whose  gentle  face 
Was  fairer  than  the  roses  at  her  feet ; 

So,  deep  within  the  vase  of  memory 
I  keep  my  dust  of  roses  fresh  and  dear 

As  in  the  days  before  I  knew  the  smart 
Of  time  and  death.     Nor  aught  can  take  from  me 
The  haunting  fragrance  that  still  lingers  here  — 
As  in  a  rose-jar,  so  within  my  heart ! 


THE  LITTLE  GHOSTS 


TT7HERE  are  they  gone,  and  do  you  know 

If  they  come  back  at  fall  o'  dew, 
The  little  ghosts  of  long  ago, 
That  long  ago  were  you  ? 

And  all  the  songs  that  ne'er  were  sung, 
And  all  the  dreams  that  ne'er  came  true, 

Like  little  children  dying  young  — 
Do  they  come  back  to  you? 


THE  ISLAND 

'  I  AHERE  is  an  island  in  the  silent  sea, 

-*•      Whose  marge  the  wistful  waves  lap  listlessly  - 
An  isle  of  rest  for  those  who  used  to  be. 

For  ne'er  an  echo  wakes  that  towering  wall, 
Whose  blackened  crags  answer  none  other  call 
Save  the  lone  ocean's  rhythmic  rise  and  fall. 

Only  the  song  the  sea  sings  as  she  laves 

That  sleep-bound  shore  with  sad  caressing  waves, 

The  while  the  dead  lie  sleeping  in  their  graves. 

So  still  they  sleep  within  each  quiet  tomb, 
Cool  in  long  shadows  of  the  cypress  gloom, 
Breathing  in  death  the  moon-flower's  rank  perfume. 

They  know  not  when  slow  barges  on  the  mere 
Enter  the  portals  of  that  place  austere  — 
Enter,  and  so  forever  disappear  ! 

And  in  this  island  of  a  silent  sea, 

Whose  marge  the  wistful  waves  lap  listlessly, 

Is  rest,  —  is  peace  for  all  eternity. 


YOUTH 

T  SHALL  remember  then, 
•*•     At  twilight  time  or  in  the  hush  of  dawn, 
Or  yet,  mayhap,  when  on  a  straying  wind 
The  scent  of  lilac  comes,  or  when 
Some  strain  of  music  startles  and  is  gone. 

Old  dreams,  old  roses,  all  so  far  behind, 
Blossoms  and  birds  and  ancient  shadow-trees, 
Whispers  at  sunset,  the  low  hum  of  bees, 
And  sheep  that  graze  beneath  a  summer  sun. 
Will  they  too  come,  they  who  in  yester-year 
Walked  the  same  paths  and  in  the  first  of  Spring, 
And  shall  I  hear 
Their  distant  voices  murmuring  ? 

I  shall  remember  then 

When  youth  is  done, 

With  the  dim  years  grown  gray ; 

And  I  shall  wonder  what  it  is  that  ends, 

And  why  they  seem  so  very  far  away  — 

Old  dreams,  old  roses  .   .  .  and  old  friends. 


WITH  APRIL  WINDS 

I  SIT  and  dream  across  a  space  of  hours 
•*•    Nor  note  the  passing  of  the  moment's  wing, 
For  time  seems  but  the  voice  of  gentle  showers, 
A  far-off  echo  faintly  murmuring. 

I  sit  and  dream  .  .  .  and  as  sweet  April  ways 
The  turf  turns  golden  in  a  sweep  of  bloom, 

Each  branch  takes  on  the  tint  of  chrysoprase 
Where  Spring  reveals  the  wonder  of  her  loom. 

And  in  an  instant  all  the  world  slips  by 

With  time  and  space  out-stript  in  long  ago ; 

About  my  feet  the  meadow-grasses  lie 

Rocked  by  a  wind  that  makes  the  blossoms  grow. 

While  in  the  grasses  every  bloom  I  see 
Harbors  the  dew  of  immortality. 


JOYOUS-GARD 

-W ASHED  and  free,  full-swept  by 
rain  and  wave, 
By  tang  of  surf  and  thunder  of  the  gale, 
Wild  be  the  ride  yet  safe  the  barque  will  sail 
And  past  the  plunging  seas  her  harbor  brave ; 
Nor  care  have  I  that  storms  and  waters  rave, 
I  cannot  fear  since  you  can  never  fail  — 
Once  have  I  looked  upon  the  burning  grail, 
And  through  your  eyes  have  seen  beyond  the  grave. 

I  know  at  last  —  the  strange,  sweet  mystery, 
The  nameless  joy  that  trembled  into  tears, 

The  hush  of  wings  when  you  were  at  my  side  — 
For  now  the  veil  is  rent  and  I  can  see, 
See  the  true  vision  of  the  future  years, 

As  in  your  face  the  love  of  Him  who  died  ! 


A  YESTERDAY 

F  HELD  you  in  my  arms  —  so  happy  I, 
•*-     Who  quite  forgot  the  while  that  moments  fly; 
Nor  ever  dreamed  that  they  could  pass  away, 
Till  it  was  yesterday. 

Yet,  just  because  that  hour  was  long  ago 
And  seems  to  me  so  near  —  well,  this  I  know 
That  sometime  I  shall  clasp  your  hand  and  say  :    . 
Was  there  a  yesterday  ? 


TWO  SONGS  IN  SPRING 


LITTLE  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring, 

You  hold  my  winter  in  forgetf ulness ; 
Without  my  window  lilac  branches  swing, 
Within  my  gate  I  hear  a  robin  sing  — 

O  little  laughing  blooms  that  lift  and  bless ! 

So  blow  the  breezes  in  a  soft  caress, 

Blowing  my  dreams  upon  a  swallow's  wing; 
O  little  merry  buds  in  dappled  dress, 
You  fill  my  heart  with  very  wantonness  — 
O  little  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring ! 


II 


At  hint  of  Spring  I  have  you  back  again  — 
The  blush  of  apple-blossoms  on  the  bough, 

A  scent  of  buds  far  sweeter  for  the  rain  .  .  . 

At  hint  of  Spring  I  have  you  back  again, 
And  all  of  time  is  lost  since  then  and  now. 

Your  voice  is  hidden  in  the  thrush's  song, 

And  in  the  south-wind's  slumbering  refrain ; 
You  needs  must  come,  love  is  so  very  strong, 
And  we  who  found  each  other  waited  long — 
At  hint  of  Spring  I  have  you  back  again ! 


10 


AT  THE  WINDOW 

41 

F  LOOKED  out  of  my  window  tall 
-**     And  laughed  to  see  the  May, 
For  everything  both  great  and  small 
Was  on  a  holiday. 

Then  love  came  by  and  laughed  at  me, 

And  I  forgot  the  Spring  — 
Only  I  knew  the  ecstasy 

Of  madly  listening. 

And  now  the  buds  are  out  again, 
White  on  the  boughs  of  May, 

But  tears  have  dimmed  the  window-pane  - 
And  no  one  comes  my  way. 


11 


MAY-EVE 

0 

S~\VER  the  hill,  over  the  hill, 
^^    The  dews  are  wet  and  the  shadows  long, 
Twilight  lingers  and  all  is  still 
Save  for  the  call  of  a  faery-song. 

Calling,  calling  out  of  the  west, 

Over  the  hill  in  the  dusk  of  day, 
Over  the  hill  to  a  land  of  rest, 

A  land  of  peace  with  the  world  away. 

Never  again  where  grasses  sweep, 

And  lights  are  low,  and  the  cool  brakes  still — 
Never  a  song,  but  a  dreamless  sleep, 

Over  the  hill  .  .  .  over  the  hill. 


12 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  FAR  AWAY 

F  HEARD  a  voice  from  the  far  away 
•*•     Softly  say  this  to  me  — 
u  You  will  find  the  heart  of  the  world  some  day 

And  the  why  of  the  things  that  be ; 
You  will  see  the  grief  of  the  yea  and  nay 

And  the  price  of  frailty. 

'And  upon  your  lute  you  will  weave  a  theme 
Which  the  world  will  harken  and  know, 

For  every  note  of  the  song  will  teem 
With  a  great  soul's  overflow  — 

You  will  speak  the  meaning  within  a  dream 
And  the  pain  in  the  afterglow. 

"  But  for  all  of  this  there  's  a  price  to  pay, 

'T  is  the  price  of  minstrelsy, 
You  will  never  have  of  the  things  you  play, 

Sad  singer  of  poetry, 
And  throughout  your  life  you  will  go  for  aye 

Heart-hungry  and  silently  !  " 

I  heard  a  voice  from  the  far  away 
Softly  say  this  to  me. 


13 


TO  SONG 

T  TERR  shall  remain  all  tears  for  lovely  things 

•*•  -*•     And  here  enshrined  the  longing  of  great  hearts, 

Caught  on  a  lyre  whence  waking  wonder  starts, 
To  mount  afar  upon  immortal  wings ; 
Here  shall  be  treasured  tender  wonderings, 

The  faintest  whisper  that  the  soul  imparts, 

All  silent  secrets  and  all  gracious  arts 
Where  nature  murmurs  of  her  hidden  springs. 

O  magic  of  a  song  !  here  loveliness 

May  sleep  unhindered  of  life's  mortal  toll, 

And  noble  things  stand  towering  o'er  the  tide ; 
Here  mid  the  years,  untouched  by  time  or  stress, 
Shall  sweep  on  every  wind  that  stirs  the  soul 
The  music  of  a  voice  that  never  died  ! 


Ol  •HI 


14 


YOU  AND  I 

the  hills  where  the  pine-trees  grow, 
With  a  laugh  to  answer  the  wind  at  play. 
Why  do  I  laugh  ?     I  do  not  know, 
But  you  and  I  once  passed  this  way. 

Down  in  the  hollow  now  white  with  snow 
My  heart  is  singing  a  song  to-day. 

Why  do  I  sing?     I  do  not  know, 
But  you  and  I  were  here  in  May. 


15 


PRIM  AVER A 

TI7HAT  is  it  stirs, 

What  whisper  calls  within  the  wood 
Breaking  the  winter  solitude 
Over  snow-laden  firs? 
What  whisper  calls,  what  scent 
Of  vanished  thing, 
What  waking  merriment? 
It  is  of  Spring  — 

A  dream  of  long  ago  when  gods  were  young, 
When  Life  was  Youth,  and  Song  was  yet  unsung ; 
Nor  Death,  nor  Fear, 
But  Youth  at  best,  and  Spring-time  all  the  year. 

So,  for  a  little  while  remembering, 

Do  violets  blow 

And  daffodils,  as  in  the  long  ago  — 

A  little  while  in  Spring. 

A  little  while, 

A  web  of  dreaming  spun ; 

And  through  our  blinding  tears 

Still  smiling  mid  the  ever-changing  years 

The  lovely  face  of  young  Endymion ! 


16 


A  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

FT  stands  upon  the  edge  of  yesterday, 

-*•     Remote,  forgotten  in  the  years  since  sped, 
Its  ghostly  houses  all  untenanted, 

Its  moss-grown  streets  fallen  to  rank  decay ; 

Sometimes  a  vagrant  sheep  may  idly  stray 
Adown  its  lonely  lanes,  but  never  tread 
Of  human  step — none  save  the  simple  dead, 

Who  sleep  behind  the  hill  the  hours  away. 

For  this  I  think — that  in  the  first  of  Spring, 
Or  'neath  the  wonder  of  the  summer  moon, 

When  all  things  speak  of  Youth's  remembering, 
When  all  is  fair  because  the  time  is  June  — 

They  come  again  and  wander  to  and  fro, 

Those  quaint  dear  people  of  the  long  ago. 


17 


SAIDA 

\X7E  passed  along  the  high-road,  you  and  I, 

Though  I  remember  not  the  place  nor  when ; 
Only  the  wonder  of  your  face,  and  then 
That  you  passed  by. 

But  that  was  long  ago,  and  I  forget ; 

Perhaps  't  were  better  that  I  went  alone, 
You  might  not  e'er  have  loved  me  had  you  known, 
And  yet,  and  yet — 


18 


FROM  THE  HILLS 

you  the  white-wracked  waste  —  yet  not  for  me- 
The  roar  of  tempests  and  the  storm-god's  song, 
All  that  is  sad  and  strange  and  sweet  at  sea, 
All  that  is  fierce  and  strong. 

I  too  have  tasted  of  the  salt-sea  wine 

And  heard  a-riot  the  wild  winds  at  play ; 
The  heart's  full  beat,  the  joyous  anodyne 
Of  salt-sea  spray. 

This,  this  at  last  —  a  quiet  intervale, 

Kissed  by  soft  lights  and  gladdened  by  the  sun ; 
You,  of  the  curling  surf,  the  blast,  the  gale  — 
I,  of  oblivion. 


19 


I  KNOW  A  QUIET  VALE 

T  KNOW  a  quiet  vale  where  faint  winds  blow 

•*•     The  silver  poplar-branches  all  awry, 
And  ne'er  another  sound  comes  drifting  by 

Save  where  the  stream's  cool  waters  softly  flow, 

Only  wild-roses  riot  there  and  throw 

Their  perfume  recklessly,  the  while  on  high 
Great  snowy  clouds  pillow  the  smiling  sky 

And  cast  frail  shadows  on  the  grass  below. 

All  is  the  same,  the  summer  stillness  dreams 

In  idleness  across  the  sunny  leas, 
Until  for  very  drowsiness  it  seems 

The  wind  has  gone  to  sleep  within  the  trees  — 
Yet  we  once  laughed  at  what  the  years  might  bring, 
And  now  I  am  alone,  remembering. 


20 


THE  ROSE  HAS  BLOWN  AWAY 

To  J.  B.  R. 


F^HE  rose  has  blown  away 
-*•        And  the  song-bird  now  is  still, 
Yet  little  care  had  they 
Save  to  echo  Nature's  will. 

But  in  us  a  sadness  grows 
At  the  ending  of  the  strain, 

For  the  petals  of  the  rose 
That  will  never  bloom  again. 

And  I  think  this  needs  must  be, 
As  a  gleam  through  grated  bars, 

Hint  of  some  great  mystery 
Past  the  outposts  of  the  stars  ! 


21 


TO  WILD-ROSES 

E.  A.  MacD. 

'  I  AHE  wild-rose  riots  and  the  lichens  cling, 

-*•        And  all  o'errun  with  tangled  brier  and  thorn, 
Within  the  alder  still  the  thrushes  sing 

Because  they  know  not  change  nor  things  outworn. 

Tangle  and  wild-rose  and  a  ruined  wall, 
Silence  and  sunlight  and  a  voiceless  pain, 

The  haunting  smell  of  roses  and  the  fall 

Of  leaves  full-blown  that  will  not  bud  again. 


22 


LONGING 

AN  this  be  summer,  though  the  gentle  heat 
Has  swept  the  roses  on  a  wind  of  June, 
And  borne  their  fragrance  to  my  aimless  feet 
That  go  unheeding  'neath  a  ghostly  moon? 

And  all  the  poplars  vague  and  motionless, 
And  all  the  lights  soft  in  a  silver  gray ; 

Can  this  be  so,  and  with  such  loveliness, — 
Can  this  be  summer,  dear,  with  you  away  ? 

So  hushed,  so  quiet  where  the  shadows  throng 
Across  the  pool  between  the  starlight's  stain, 

Watching  in  silence  all  the  still  night  long, 
Watching  in  silence,  and  for  you  in  vain. 

Summer  and  starlight  and  an  hour  grown  late, — 
And  you  who  will  not  come,  and  I  who  wait ! 


23 


A  HOUSE  O'  DREAMS 

\\  7"E  once  built  a  house  o'  dreams 

At  the  break  of  day, 
Made  from  out  the  first  gold  beams 
On  the  sward  astray. 

Little  did  we  think  or  care 
'T  was  not  safe  nor  strong ; 

We  were  very  happy  there 
And  the  day  was  long. 

Now  we  leave  our  house  o'  dreams, 

Why,  we  do  not  know ; 
Only  this  —  so  strange  it  seems 

And  so  hard  to  go. 


24 


OF  ONE  WHO  WALKS  ALONE 

"^HESE  are  the  ways  of  one  who  walks  alone, 
•*•      Sweet  silent  ways  that  lead  toward  twilight  skies, 
Bees  softly  winging  where  a  low  wind  sighs 
Through  the  hills'  hollow  cool  and  clover-blown. 

These  are  the  ways  that  call  one  back  again 
To  old  forgotten  things  in  faded  years, 
Swift  on  a  moment  of  remembered  tears 

They  stand  from  out  the  dust  where  they  have  lain. 

These  are  the  ways  life's  simple  secrets  bless, 

Keen  homely  scents  borne  by  each  haunted  wind, — 
Here  in  the  silence  one  may  ever  find 

That  last  strange  peace  whose  name  is  loneliness. 


25 


IN  ARCADY 

A  LTHOUGH  't  is  but  a  memory, 
4-  ^     Still  in  the  days  of  long  ago 
We  tended  sheep  in  Arcady. 

Then  were  we  both  of  fancy  free 

And  laughing  Youth  had  much  to  show, 

Although  't  is  but  a  memory. 

Again  the  pasture-lands  we  see 
Where  in  the  golden  summer  glow 
We  tended  sheep  in  Arcady. 

And  hear  the  tender  harmony 

Of  shepherd  pipes  that  softly  blow, 

Although  't  is  but  a  memory. 

Nor  thought  of  any  end  had  we 
As  through  the  grasses  to  and  fro 
We  tended  sheep  in  Arcady. 

So,  what  if  life  now  empty  be, 
Of  all  the  past  this  do  we  know, 
Although  't  is  but  a  memory, 
We  tended  sheep  in  Arcady ! 


26 


THE  POET 

T?OR  one  great  Queen  who  sits  in  majesty, 
-*•     Untouched,  austere,  upon  a  golden  throne, 
The  like  whose  loveliness  was  never  known 
Of  ebony  and  rose  and  ivory, — 
For  her  you  weave  a  broidered  tapestry, 
Rife  with  rich  stains  of  every  color-tone 
Inwrought;  while  she  immovable  as  stone 
But  watches  pitiless  and  silently. 

Yet,  should  this  Queen  of  Beauty  lift  her  arm 
And  take  your  broidered  web, — ah,  then  the  prize, 

The  vast  reward  of  all  the  scars  and  shame, 
For  in  the  moment  as  a  mystic  charm 

The  cloth  is  changed  to  porphyry,  and  lies 
Forever  on  her  breast  a  frozen  flame ! 


27 


FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS 

To  G.  A.  K. 

• 

F  MAY  not  know,  and  yet  your  hand's  impress 
•••     Softly  has  lain  where  he  so  sweetly  sleeps, 

And  you  have  lingered  where  the  ivy  creeps 
Across  a  little  stone  with  tenderness ; 
I  may  not  know — yet,  oh  the  little  less, 

For  you  have  stood  where  now  the  laurel  weeps 

Above  that  dust  the  sacred  city  keeps, 
And  lonely  shadows  lean  in  sad  caress. 

Once  when  the  summer  held  its  sway  of  gold 
We  heard  his  song  in  deathless  melody  .  .  . 

And  you  have  lingered  where  the  cypress  grieves ; 
This  is  the  wonder  of  sweet  things  grown  old  — 
For  in  my  heart  his  music  sings  to  me, 
And  in  my  hand  these  spirit-laden  leaves ! 


28 


SOMETIMES 


A  CROSS  the  fields  of  yesterday 
r          He  sometimes  comes  to  me, 
A  little  lad  just  back  from  play  — 
The  lad  I  used  to  be. 


And  yet  he  smiles  so  wistfully 
Once  he  has  crept  within, 

I  wonder  if  he  hopes  to  see 
The  man  I  might  have  been. 


29 


TO  YOU,  DEAR  HEART 

F^O  you,  dear  heart,  whom  I  have  never  known 
-*•        I  sing  my  little  songs  all  wonderingly, 
That  sometime  you  may  hear,  —  the  sweet  atone 
For  all  the  years  and  years  of  search  alone  — 
That  sometime  you  may  hear  and  come  to  me. 

So  on  I  go  a-singing  down  my  way 

With  ne'er  a  thought  of  all  the  journey  past, 
For  this  I  know  —  that  on  one  perfect  day 
When  everything  is,  oh,  so  glad  and  gay, 

You  '11  hear  and  come  and  claim  your  own,  at  last. 


30 


IN  TRINITY  CHURCH-YARD 

TTOW  still  they  sleep  within  the  city  moil 

^  •*•   In  their  old  church-yard  with  its  sighing  trees, 

Where  sometimes  through  the  din  a  twilight  breeze 
Makes  one  forget  the  busy  streets  of  toil ; 
But  they  have  little  thought  of  worldly  spoil 

Or  the  great  gain  of  mortal  victories, 

Their  hopes,  their  dreams,  are  cold  and  dead  as  these 
Quaint,  time-worn  gravestones  crumbling  on  the  soil. 

Yet  they  once  lived  and  struggled  years  ago ; 

Their  hearts  beat  madly  as  these  hearts  of  ours  — 

And  now  is  all  undone  in  dreamless  rest? 
See,  a  great  city  stands  against  the  glow  — 
Their  city,  they  who  here  beneath  the  flowers 

Have  known  so  long  God's  gift  of  peace,  most  blest ! 


31 


IMPRESSION 

A    LITTLE  stone  o'ercrept  with  moss 
4f  ^     And  red  wild-roses  flaunting  by, 

A  wistful  breeze  that  seems  to  sigh 
Where  the  tall  grasses  toss. 

To  sigh  for  one  who  went  away 
Thus  it  is  writ  upon  the  stone  — 
Nothing  can  ever  make  atone 

And  tears  shall  fall  for  aye. 

Oh,  irony  of  human  vow, 

Even  the  stone  is  crumbling  too, 

And  tears  —  none  save  the  evening  dew, 

For  who  remembers  now  ? 


32 


THE  PIPER 

X7[7E  danced  and  sang  through  the  sylvan  glade 
As  the  piper  played,  as  the  piper  played, 

With  never  a  thought  of  the  joy  he  made ; 
For  his  squeaking  pipe  was  quaintly  small 
And  the  rasping  notes  would  break  and  fall. 

We  thought  it  quite  poor  if  we  thought  at  all 
As  the  piper  played. 

The  shadows  were  long  in  the  sylvan  glade 

As  the  price  we  paid,  as  the  price  we  paid. 
We  had  little  to  give,  else  he  might  have  stayed ; 

But  others  must  dance  while  he  must  play. 

Yet  it  seemed  so  strange  he  went  away, 
For  we  didn't  then  know  we  had  lived  our  day 

And  the  price  was  paid. 


33 


THE  HUNCHBACK 

T  TE  never  knew  the  golden  thrall  of  youth, 
•*•  -*•     The  ringing  step,  the  rumpled  wind- 
tossed  hair, 

The  reckless  laugh  untouched  of  pain  or  ruth, 
Youth  without  pity  and  without  a  care. 

Not  his  the  swift  lithe  strength  that  ever  slays, 
And  in  its  joyous  slaying  doubly  sweet, 

Like  some  young  god  adown  immortal  ways, 
Crushing  the  blossoms  'neath  unheeding  feet. 

A  twisted  back,  a  face  year-scarred  and  grim, 

A  very  mockery  to  love's  caress, 
These  were  the  only  birthright  given  him  — 

What  should  he  know,  except  of  ugliness  ? 

But  in  his  fettered  heart  in  longing  pent 
A  wealth  of  tenderness  and,  stranger  too, 

Youth  full  of  pity  —  ah,  the  wonderment  — 
He  never  knew,  and  yet  how  well  he  knew ! 


34 


INTERLUDE 

OOMETIMES  from  out  the  rush  of  pulsing  days, 
^     These  days  whose  poetry  was  lost  in  prose 

So  long  ago,  left  desolate  on  those 
Far  childhood  paths  —  yet,  sometimes  from  the  haze 
Of  half-forgotten  years,  fall  on  our  ways 

Now  drear,  a  strain  of  song,  a  June-blown  rose. 

Ah,  sweet,  so  sweet  unto  a  heart  that  knows 
The  memory  of  once-remembered  Mays  ! 

Only  a  moment's  interlude,  and  yet 

How  the  heart  quaffs  the  draught  that  ever  thrills 

Its  soul,  finding  again  youth's  mysteries. 
What  matter  if  to-morrow  we  forget  — 
To-day  the  stillness  of  the  sun-lit  hills 
And  the  low  drowsy  hum  of  summer  bees. 


35 


REMEMBRANCE 

WEET  rosemary  within  the  lane, 

The  while  the  day  is  warm  and  clear, 
And  ne'er  a  thought  of  bitter  rain 
Or  the  road-side  sere. 

But  there  are  flowers  more  dear  to  me 
That  time  can  never  set  apart  — 

The  fragrant  blooms  of  memory 
That  grow  within  the  heart. 


36 


MY  SOUL  IS  LIKE  A  GARDEN- 
CLOSE 

1\>TY  soul  is  like  a  garden-close 

1.T  A     Where  marjoram  and  lilac  grow, 

Where  soft  the  scent  of  long  ago 
Over  the  border  lightly  blows. 

Where  sometimes  homing  winds  at  play 
Bear  the  faint  fragrance  of  a  rose  — 
My  soul  is  like  a  garden-close 

Because  you  chanced  to  pass  my  way. 


37 


NOON-TIDE 

A  S  in  some  old  and  simple  village  street 

•*-  ^  Where  all  day  long  the  lazy  shadows  lean, 
And  the  soft  sunshine  sifting  in  between 

Makes  golden  all  the  road-side  at  my  feet; 

Where  overhead  the  arching  branches  meet 

Holding  me  close  with  walls  of  cloistered  green, 
Where  scents  come  homeward  clover-lade  and  keen, 

And  ways  are  homely  and  the  long  hours  sweet. 

So  ever  at  a  moment's  thought  of  you 
Amid  this  moil,  I  seem  again  to  stand 

In  an  old  lane  where  we  were  wont  to  pass  — 
Afar  the  hum  of  bees  is  wafted  through, 
The  sleepy  pastures  smile  on  either  hand, 
And  life  lies  dreaming  in  the  tangled  grass. 


38 


TRAUMEREI 

F^HERE  is  a  place  of  dreams,  Dear,  a  place  of  dreams 
•••      Where  you  and  I,  my  head  upon  your  breast, 
Ride  toward  the  South.     Far  in  the  yellow  West 
There  is  a  fading  light,  while  o'er  the  moonlit  sky 
The  clouds  fly  from  the  wind ;  and  you  and  I 
Just  dream  together,  dreaming  thus  to  rest 
Forever  and  a  day  in  that  far  place  of  dreams. 


39 


ON  AN  IDYL  OF  THEOCRITUS 

'  I  XO  thee  the  haunting  pipes  of  Pan  belong 
-*•       And  merry  revels  from  a  sheltered  glade, 
Where  in  cool  crystal  depths  slim  naiads  wade 

And  the  dim  woods  proclaim  a  satyr  throng ; 

A  faun  peeps  through  the  copse  with  ardor  strong 
To  capture  some  hid  dryad  half-afraid, 
And  I  have  seen  the  virgin  forest-maid  — 

All,  all  through  thee  and  thy  immortal  song. 

Far  from  this  winter  steep  and  cheerless  snow 
Lure  me  away  to  that  sweet  southern  sea, 

Where  in  profusion  rose  and  myrtles  grow 
Upon  the  fragrant  banks  of  Sicily  — 

Where  I,  perchance,  may  hear  the  low  flutes  blow, 
And  dream  I  walked  the  meadow-lands  with  thee 


40 


TRISTESSE 

TF  you  were  not  away, 

-*•   These  trees,  this  south-wind  and  this  dreary  day 

Would  all  be  mad  with  joyous  ecstasy; 

But  you  are  gone,  so  mourning  they  with  me 

Find  bitter-sweet  in  idle  fantasy. 

How  glad,  how  mad,  how  gay, 

If  you  were  not  away  ! 


41 


AN  ETUDE  IN  IVORY 

A     GLEAM  of  amber  through  the  sunset's  glow 

*•  ^     And  on  the  keys  your  hands  that  softly  creep, 
Aimlessly  wandering  like  little  sheep, 

Lost  in  a  pasture-land  of  long  ago. 

Dusk  and  the  shadows  sifting  to  and  fro  ... 
And  far  away  upon  some  twilit  steep, 
Fast  in  the  dew-washed  asphodel  asleep, 

Drunken  in  dreams  that  stir  as  drifted  snow. 

Where  now  the  wind  is  but  a  shepherd's  reed 
And  overhead  the  clouds  a  scattered  fleece, 

Swift  as  the  scud  and  restless  as  the  sea.   .  .  . 
Or  where,  borne  home  across  that  pallid  mead, 
I  see  no  more  the  lovely  vales  of  Greece  — 
Only  your  hands  that  are  of  ivory ! 


42 


AT  DUSK 

A    LINE  of  gold,  a  shade  of  withered  rose 
•  ^    Amid  the  gray, — oh,  just  a  little  while 
Before  the  night ;  as  though  day  could  not  close 
Its  eyes  in  sleep  without  one  last  sweet  smile. 


43 


IN  THE  FALL  O'  YEAR 

f  WENT  back  an  old-time  lane 
•*-     In  the  fall  o'  year, 
There  was  wind  and  bitter  rain 
And  the  leaves  were  sere. 

Once  the  birds  were  lilting  high 

In  a  far-off  May  — 
I  remember,  you  and  I 

Were  as  glad  as  they. 

But  the  branches  now  are  bare 

And  the  lad  you  knew 
Long  ago  was  buried  there  — 

Long  ago,  with  you  ! 


44 


AN  OLD  SONG 

LOW  blowing  winds  from  out  a  midnight  sky, 
The  falling  embers  and  a  kettle's  croon  — 
These  three,  but  oh  what  sweeter  lullaby 
Ever  awoke  beneath  the  winter's  moon. 

We  know  of  none  the  sweeter,  you  and  I, 
And  oft  we  've  heard  together  that  old  tune  — 

Low  blowing  winds  from  out  a  midnight  sky, 
The  falling  embers  and  a  kettle's  croon. 


45 


OLD  ROSES 

PIRIT  of  old-time  roses,  when  the  glow 
Of  eventide  steals  softly  through  the  trees 

Like  rosy  petals  falling,  and  the  breeze 
Grows  hushed  until  it  sings  a  love-song,  low 
And  sweet  and  tender,  then  I  seem  to  know 

You  too  are  somewhere  near  and  watching  these 

Last  wondrous  sights  of  day — God's  mysteries 
We  used  to  watch  together  long  ago. 

And,  like  a  benediction,  happiness 

Fills  all  my  soul,  as  if  a  wandering  breath 

From  that  high  heaven  had  wafted  down  to  me- 
As  if  I  felt  again  your  dear  caress 

And  knew  you  to  be  waiting  e'er  in  death, 
Crowned  with  tile  roses  of  eternity. 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 


IN     MEMORIAM 
ARTHUR  UPSON 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 


I 


OU  found  the  green  before  the  Spring  was  sweet 
And  in  the  boughs  the  color  of  a  rose, 
The  haunting  fragrance  that  the  south-wind  knows 
When  May  has  wandered  far  on  questing  feet; 
And  in  your  heart  —  a  wild  note,  full  and  fleet, 
The  first  cry  of  a  gladdened  bird  that  goes 
North  to  the  fields  of  winter-laden  snows, 
Joyous  against  the  blast  and  stinging  sleet. 

A.nd  now  the  Spring  is  here,  the  snows  are  gone, 
The  apple-blossoms  fall  from  every  tree 

And  all  the  branches  throb  with  love  and  Spring ; 
But  never  comes  one  note  to  greet  the  dawn, 
Never  again  a  wild-glad  melody  — 

God  speed,  great  soul,  your  valiant  wandering ! 


49 


II 


hand  that  traced  these  lines,  and  now  is  dust ! 
How  strange  to-night  this  thing  of  life  and  death, 
Where  my  low  candle-flame  o'ershadoweth 
What  once  knew  youth  in  its  first  joyous  trust; 
So  simple  and  so  near,  as  if  you  must 

Still  linger  somewhere  —  yet  no  answer  saith 
Its  golden  word,  no  magic-freighted  breath, 
Only  a  heart-beat  stilled  in  rainbow-rust. 

Stilled  in  the  music  of  a  yester-year 
That  ever  echoes  its  sweet  instrument, 

And  richly  sings  across  an  unknown  sea; 
But  these  dim  lines  —  so  vital  they  appear, 
So  full  of  youth  and  joy  and  life's  intent. 
Ah,  this  it  is  that  seems  so  strange  to  me  ! 


50 


Ill 


T  TOW  quiet  are  their  voices  on  the  wind 

•*•-••     As  they  toss  sadly  in  a  darkened  sky, 
And  yet,  mayhap,  to  you  old  words  imply 

That  all  my  questing  days  I  shall  not  find ; 

For  never  more  may  earthly  vestures  bind, 

But  stripped  away  from  things  that  needs  must  die, 
Deep  in  that  youth  where  death's  strange  secrets  lie 

And  whose  faint  whispers  fall  on  us  behind. 

\ 

Therefore  to  you  the  voices  harbor  peace, 
Their  ancient  patience  do  you  know  at  last, 

Yet  more,  the  inmost  murmuring  of  these  — 
And  in  that  mystic  lore  beyond  release, 
In  one  full  instant  from  a  treasured  past, 

Mayhap,  you  heard  the  Message  of  the  Trees ! 


51 


IV 


r  STOOD  to-day  upon  time's  border-land 

•••    And  looked  far  off  across  each  rolling  year, 
Yet  scarcely  their  great  thunder  did  I  hear 

Nor  marked  the  wreckage  of  the  changing  sand ; 

For  one  soft  note  persuasive  did  command 

All  other  tones  that  reached  my  quickened  ear, 
And  in  that  note  a  message  low  and  clear 

That  I  so  plainly  seemed  to  understand. 

As  in  the  saddened  passing  of  fair  things, 
The  sorrow  of  the  sunset  and  the  dawn, 
For  death    that  comes  when  life's  hour 

least  should  fail : 
Ever  the  moment's  hush  of  lifted  wings, 

A  gleam  of  wonder  ere  the  flood  is  gone  .  .  . 
The  host  uncovered  from  its  mortal  veil ! 


52 


/^\CTOBER  almost  holds  her  golden  sway 

^^    Across  these  hills  and  through  the  slopes  between, 
As  if  for  you  some  sacrament  unseen 

Were  now  unfolded  in  a  silent  way, — 

As  if  for  you  pale  memory  astray 

Had  touched  each  spot  of  misted  summer  green, 
And  in  the  coolness  where  the  shadows  lean 

Had  whispered  of  a  cherished  yesterday. 

For  one  to  whom  you  gaVe  your  youth's  full  praise 
Now  takes  you  back  into  her  hallowed  rest 
With  all  the  loveliness  that  is  your  due, 
Yielding  the  precious  beauty  of  her  days 

To  your  deep  sleep  upon  her  tranquil  breast, — 
Giving  you  back  her  deathless  love  of  you  ! 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


